


Like a Paperclip to a Magnet

by nutmeag83



Series: Through All of Time and Space [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Protective John, Soulmates, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-13
Updated: 2017-11-13
Packaged: 2019-02-01 22:32:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12714156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nutmeag83/pseuds/nutmeag83
Summary: John's time travel saved his life and led him to meeting Sherlock. Now the universe intervenes again to prevent Sherlock's death as he hunts down Moriarty's web. Not only does it save Sherlock's life, but it gives him a chance to right the wrong of hiding his fake suicide plan from John.





	Like a Paperclip to a Magnet

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve wanted to come back to this ‘verse for a while, but never had a good story to tell. That changed with a prompt from the lovely [Talizora](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Talizora/pseuds/Talizora). This time, Sherlock gets to try his hand at time travel. 
> 
> This takes place just before Sherlock comes back from the dead. Despite their auspicious beginnings, all of the events from S1 and S2 of the show happen pretty much as on screen.
> 
> No beta’d or Britpicked. Here be typos.

He is tired. He has been running for so long now. Sometimes he is running after someone. Sometimes someone is running after him. It’s all beginning to blur together. He’d be done by now if John–.

_No, don’t think of that. Focus._

Some days, thoughts of getting back to John make him work harder and faster. Other days, those thoughts only distract him, made him despair of ever finishing his work. But the job needs to be done, so he does it. Today’s thoughts would only distract him, so he pushes them away.

Today he is running from someone. He’d made a mistake. A stupid mistake only worthy of the rest of the idiots who populate this planet.

_If John– Stop!_

He is _so_ tired. He isn’t going to make it much longer. He turns left to dart between two buildings. Bad idea. Dead end. Shit.

So _very_ tired…

_John_.

He takes as deep a breath as he can manage, hearing his pursuer slowing to a stop behind him, then he turns with hands raised in surrender. He opens his mouth to speak. Probably a bad idea, but he can’t help trying to talk his way out of bad situations.

“Tsk tsk, Mr. Holmes. I know better than to let you speak,” the woman says, gun trained on Sherlock’s head. “I do appreciate you giving me this moment, though. Killing the famous Sherlock Holmes will do wonders for my career.”

Before Sherlock can manage a retort, the woman’s finger squeezes the trigger.

_JOHN!_

Crash!

Wait. Guns don’t go “crash.” They go “piyow.” And it’s warm. Much warmer than the Czech autumn streets he’d been running through. And it’s light, where before it had been dark. Dust. A lingering chemical smell. The sound of a kettle clicking off?

Oh. Home.

Sherlock catches his breath, eyes darting around the sitting room, taking everything in. Movement in the kitchen grabs his attention, and he see John—oh my God, _John_ ; lovely, amazing, golden John—falling to his knees amidst shards of ceramic. His face is frozen in a mix of horror, disbelief, and hope. After a short time, during which Sherlock tries to understand what’s happening, John shakes his head dazedly.

“No. No! You can’t– This can’t– I’m dreaming. I’m hallucinating. I’m dead. You’re… God, no. _You’re dead_.” He buries his face in his hands as he continues to mutter to himself.

Ah. An idea begins to coalesce in Sherlock’s brain. Displaced merely through space, or time as well? John had done both. Once. Years ago, when they first met. Sherlock likes the idea that he’s been given the chance as well. It’s only fair. Especially now, when he needs John most.

He looks around, trying to figure out when in time he’s appeared. There are no newspapers. No calendar. No big blinking sign with the date in neon. It’s definitely after his “suicide,” given John’s reaction. But it could be anytime between the jump and Sherlock’s own present. With no clues forthcoming, he takes stock of his own self. He feels the same as he did before the woman pulled the trigger—tired, hungry, aching. His despair is gone, though. Why despair when the object of his thoughts is finally, _finally_ , standing in front of him.

“So that’s what it feels like,” he murmurs. “I expected more… something.”

John’s hands pull slowly away from his face. His eyes are wide and glossy. His mouth is slack. His chest is heaving. He looks _amazing_. Sherlock wants to stand there forever, taking in every detail. More than once over the past two years, he’d bolted awake in a cold sweat, afraid he’d forgotten some little detail about John. He lets his eyes roam now, looking to their fill. They reach John’s knees, which are still on the floor where he’d fallen upon Sherlock’s appearance. There a growing red stain on his jeans, and a bit of red on the lino below, where a shard of ceramic digs into the knee. Sherlock jolts into action, not liking that he has caused physical pain in his friend, along with the psychological and emotional pain he sees in John’s too expressive face.

John’s breath catches when Sherlock’s hands land on his arms, and he whimpers as Sherlock pulls him to standing. He shakes his head again. “No. No. Nonononono,” he murmurs incredulously. “Not real. Not real. Not–” A sob stops his protestations, but he continues to shake his head. His hands are clenched tightly at his sides.

Sherlock’s chest tightens, and he moves without thinking, wrapping his arms around his friend’s tense shoulders, one hand sliding to John’s head, though whether to stop John’s shaking or just to feel as much of his friend as possible, Sherlock doesn’t know. John’s hair is soft against Sherlock’s cheek. The vibrations from John’s sobs travel to Sherlock’s own chest, and he can barely breath.

They stand there for several minutes, the only movement John’s shaking and his own arms when they wrap around Sherlock’s waist.

Finally, John speaks. Quietly, voice rough. “Why…” He clears his throat. It doesn’t help. When he speaks again, it’s still that whisper-shout he does when something really upsets him. “Why did you do it? You left–” He pulls away from Sherlock, eyes wide in realization of something. Sherlock lets go reluctantly. “Oh, God. Wait. You don’t know. It hasn’t happened yet. Unless, it’s just happened.” John shakes his head, hands going to his temples. “No. I saw you fall. I saw you d–” He chokes. Takes a minute. Breathes. Takes in Sherlock’s very alive body. His eyes are frantic. “When did you come from? You’ve not mentioned that you time traveled.”

Ah. John thinks Sherlock is dead. Of course. “What is the date?” he inquires.

John’s brow furrows. “I, ah.” He looks lost. Sherlock well remembers what it’s like to have someone just appear out of nowhere. And the person who had appeared to him hadn’t been a supposedly dead best friend, so he allows John his confusion.

“John,” he says softly. And, oh, how amazing it feels to say that name again. He hasn’t let himself say the name out loud in so long. It’s like he can breathe again. “John,” he says again, because he can. “How long has it been for you? How long since I… fell?”

A cry escapes John’s lips. His head is shaking yet again. Sherlock’s chest clenches in sympathy. “No. No. How long where you planning this? Why? I could’ve helped. Why did you leave m–” John grinds to a halt. His face hardens. His lips thin. His jaw sets.

Sherlock understands. But John is wrong. Sherlock would _never_ leave John unless it was the only option. John’s safety was paramount, though, so he had left. And it had broke his heart.

But it seems that the universe, just as it had allowed John on the day they had met, is giving Sherlock a second chance. Not only did it pull him away from death, but it’s allowing the one thing he’s regretted about his leaving. He’s being given the chance to explain.

Ever since he’d been secreted away from London, he’d regretted not bringing John in on the plan. But John needed to be seen mourning, and he also needed to be kept safe. Sherlock couldn’t go through the trouble of pretending to die to keep John alive, only to have him killed as they tracked down Moriarty’s network. So John had been left in ignorance in London.

Sherlock knows now it was a bad idea. He knows John. John hates when Sherlock leaves him in the dark, no matter that Sherlock’s reasons are sound. He hates being made to look like an idiot. Most of all, he hates feeling betrayed. Time has allowed Sherlock to understand all of this. But at the time when he’d fallen, there was nothing he could do about it, except hope that his friend would eventually forgive him.

This is better, though. From John’s reaction, Sherlock guesses it’s early days. He repeats his question. “How long, John?”

John’s face screws up in pain. He looks away. When he looks back, his face is once again a mask. “A week.”

Very early days. He gathers his thoughts. He has to tread lightly. And he can’t pretend. Can’t hide. John needs to see, to understand, that Sherlock can feel. His heart can break, same as John’s. “He was going to kill you,” Sherlock begins. His voice shakes. Not an act. The moment Moriarty had threatened John was the most scared Sherlock had ever been, save when John had been covered in explosives. Sherlock had been wavering on the Lazarus plan until Moriarty had threatened John.

“He had a sniper trained on you, John. If I didn’t– If I didn’t kill myself, he would have killed you. I couldn’t– There was no way I–” Sherlock’s hands are gripping the sides of John’s head. He doesn’t remember putting them there. He loosens them slightly, but doesn’t remove them. Of their own volition, his thumbs stroke John’s temples. Some days he wondered if he’d ever be allowed to touch John again. Not that that had been a regular occurrence before, but once the opportunity had been removed, it was all Sherlock wanted to do.

He understands now that they both had shied from the attraction, couched it in terms of friendship, a mutual desire to head right into the thick of things and come out the other side laughing. But with too many nights spent wishing for a single touch, Sherlock can’t stop himself now. So he lets his fingers touch, feel, learn.

“I’m so sorry, John. I didn’t want to lie to y–”

“You made me watch, Sherlock,” John’s hard voice interrupts. “Was that part of your plan too? Lie to me. Make me wa–” John’s breath hitches, and he tries to pull away, but Sherlock won’t let him go.

“No! I would never–” Sherlock takes a deep breath. _Tread carefully._ “The last thing I’d ever want to do is hurt you. You’ve saved me, time and again. I may keep things from you when required, but it is _never_ out of malice, only out of a need to keep you safe… or to keep myself from looking like an idiot,” Sherlock allows at the end.

John’s mouth twitches, so slightly that anyone other than Sherlock would miss it. Good. His mistake is not irreparable then. Still, best not to make too light of the situation.

“I do wish I could have done things differently, though. Believe me, John. I am supremely sorry for my actions and how they’ve affected you. I know now I was wrong, but at the time, it was only way out that I could see.” He tries to let every emotion show through his voice and on his face. He wishes harder than he ever has in his life.

John shudders, then reaches up to grip Sherlock’s wrists. “Sherlock.” His voice is tight, but his eyes are wide in disbelief. “When did you say you came from?”

Of course. John still thinks the Sherlock he’s talking to is from the past.

A spark of hope lights in Sherlock. His thumbs stroke John’s cheeks gently. John’s eyes are beautiful. How had Sherlock never taken the time to really appreciate them? “September 2013. I didn’t plan my suicide, John. I planned to fake it.” Sherlock lets the confession out, and it sits between, swirling around, waiting to take shape based on John’s reaction. Sherlock wishes. He hopes.

After an interminable silence, John utters “You fucking cock,” and his arms go around Sherlock as he buries his face in Sherlock’s neck. Forced to let go of John’s head, he wraps his own arms around John. Not a bad trade off. Sherlock takes in every detail he can. John’s smell. His warmth. The strength in his arms. The softness of his hair. He surfaces to hear John muttering again. “You’re alive. You’re here, and you’re alive. You’re not dead. You’re not dead. Notdeadnotdeadnotdead.”

“I’m so sorry,” Sherlock murmurs into John’s hair. “I never meant to hurt you. I just wanted you safe.”

John pulls back slightly. His face is red. His eyes are glossy, his cheeks wet. Sherlock realizes the front of his shirt is also wet, as are his own cheeks. Something breaks free in his chest. He smiles. John answers with a chuckle. Before he knows it, they’re both laughing, hanging onto each other lest they fall to the floor.

“You utter prat,” John finally says breathlessly. “I bloody hate you.” But it’s said fondly. Happily.

“As long as you love me too,” escapes from Sherlock’s mouth before he can stop it. He holds his breath. Stupid.

John looks at him softly. “I do.”

They stare at each other for a moment, then both look away. Sherlock wants to continue this thread, but the road ahead is not yet clear. He doesn’t want to give either of them too much hope. His work isn’t finished. He could still die. Though, given the universe’s penchant for sending one of them to the other when things are looking fatal, perhaps he is safe. Still, better safe than sorry. He pulls out of John’s—warm, strong, perfect—embrace.

He clears his throat. “I’m not sure how long I have here.”

“When it was my turn,” John begins thoughtfully, “I was sent back when you and I were separated. Could have just been timing, but…”

“The universe is rarely so lazy,” Sherlock finishes for him.

John smiles. “Indeed.”

Sherlock looks around, trying to think of what to say. There’s so much he wants to say, but the less John knows for now, the better. There will—hopefully—be time after Sherlock returns. His eye catches John’s bloodied jeans. “Oh, your knee.”

“Hmm?” John furrows a brow, then looks down. “Oh. I didn’t even realize…”

Sherlock falters. “You had other things on your mind,” he says lamely. “Let me–”

John shakes his head. “No, I got it. I don’t think it’s too deep.” He begins walking towards the bathroom, but stops when he realizes Sherlock is following him. “I’m just fetching the first aid kit, Sherlock.”

Sherlock scratches the back of his neck. “We don’t know the rules. What if I disappear as soon as you leave my sight? I’d rather stay a while, if you don’t mind?”

John grins. “’Course not.” He nods toward the bathroom. “Shall we?”

Sherlock trails John down the hall and into the loo, where he sits on the edge of the tub to watch John doctor his knee. So many times they had been here like this, one of them patching the other up after a case. Sherlock is glad to get this at least once more.

It is John who eventually breaks the silence. “I’m guessing you won’t tell me much, but is there anything you _can_ say?”

“I’m sor–”

“I know, Sherlock. I understand. Oh.” He stops a moment, looking as if he’s just remembered something. “I forgive you.” His face is warm and open as he says it, with happiness lingering around his eyes.

The last bit of tension leaves Sherlock’s shoulders. He closes his eyes briefly to savor the moment. Good.

“I’m still gone. In my time. Still working.”

“God. Two years,” John murmurs. “Why? What are you doing?”

“Taking down Moriarty’s network. Making sure there’s not a single person left to threaten you. Ridding the world of every last bit of that wretched man’s influence.” His voice is rough. The hairs on John’s leg where he’s pulled up his trousers glint gold in the light. Sherlock stops his hand before it reaches out. It’s hard to fight the need to know every detail of John he can get. He looks away and distracts himself with an explanation. “I think—I hope—I’m almost done. There aren’t many left. One cell, unless Mycroft uncovers more.”

“Mycroft knows?” John laughs bitterly. “Of course he does.”

“This is not what I w– what I wanted for… us.” Sherlock argues. His eyes prickle. “I never–”

A hand lands on his shoulder. He looks back at John, whose face is open. “I know.” He goes back to applying antiseptic to his knee, and Sherlock misses the warmth of his hand immediately. “What brought you to me? Lorry barreling toward you?” he asks, alluding to the reason for his own time traveling event years before.

Sherlock welcomes the light-hearted question. “Bullet to the brain, actually,” he replies with a smirk. “Glad to be missing out on that.” He’s not sure who to thank for this ability he and John seem to share, so he sends his thanks out into the aether.

John pulls his trouser leg down. “And when you’re done?” he asks, far too casually. “Where will you go?”

Sherlock frowns. As if there was an option. As if John doesn’t pull him like a paperclip to a magnet. The universe has decreed it. Far be it from Sherlock to argue, especially when it leads him right where he wants to be. “Here,” he says simply.

John smiles. “Right. Okay.” He leans against the sink behind him and crosses his arms, one hand coming up to rub his chin thoughtfully as a frown creases his brow. “So, at least two years away, probably more. And I’m just supposed to…what? Pretend everything is peachy?”

Yes, they do need to discuss John’s role, now that he knows. It’ll be a balancing act, a challenge for John, who has never been able to act too convincingly. His face is far too expressive. Sherlock takes a deep breath. Lets it out slowly. “Grieve. Continue on, just as you have been.”

“Sherlock…” Pain lines John’s eyes and mouth. “I was–” He stares at Sherlock, mouth open, but no words come out. He looks away from Sherlock. “I was barely surviving. I saw my best friend _jump off a building and die_.” His voice shakes.

Sherlock stands up. There isn’t a lot of space in the tiny room. He can almost feel the heat radiating from John’s body. He reaches up slowly and puts his hands on John’s shoulders. He doesn’t speak until John looks back at him. What Sherlock wouldn’t give to take the pain away from his friend’s expression. But it will serve a purpose.

“It has never been more imperative for you to play a convincing role, John. I _need_ you to. You must pretend I’m dead. That you’ll never see me again. Grieve, then move on. If you don’t, one or both of us will die.”

John stares at Sherlock, then lets out a breath. He swipes a hand down his face, nodding. “Right. Yeah. Just… just don’t expect me to, I dunno, find a wife and start a family. But yeah. I can– I can grieve. Get a job… eventually.” He doesn’t look particularly happy at the prospect.

Sherlock’s heart skips a beat at the thought of John marrying. Of going away. Of moving on. But he won’t. He just said he wouldn’t. “Of course not, John. And you should stay here. Mrs. Hudson needs someone to look after her.” He aches, wishing he could run down the stairs and hug her right now. John isn’t the only one he’s missed while away. Others matter more than he’d let himself believe.

Soon. Hopefully he will return for good soon. Home. To John. The idea fills him with hope and longing. Having had this time with John now, he can barely stomach the prospect of going back on the run. Alone. Hunting. Hunted. Frightened.

“Are you sure I can’t come–”

“No.” God, just the idea of it makes him want to give in. To say yes. To have John at his side again. But he can’t. “You haven’t been involved in my timeline. If we try to change that, I may never jump back to you now. We have to let things play out as they did for me. You must stay in London. Don’t contact me. Don’t contact Mycroft.”

John is reluctant, but Sherlock eventually pulls an agreement from him. Then they talk. They get take away. They laugh. There is a tinge of… something between them, but they ignore it by tacit agreement.

Sherlock needs to return to his own time, but he has a hard time breaking away from the comfort and safety that are inherent in John and Baker Street. He feels his present tugging at him, and eventually he gives in. He’s had a rest. He’s seen John. John knows and isn’t angry. Sherlock can finish the job now.

He has a reason. He’s seen John’s longing and not particularly platonic glances out of the corner of his eye. More than the ideas of home that kept him going before, he has a hope of something more to fight for. He stands reluctantly.

“It’s time, isn’t it?” John asks knowingly.

Sherlock nods, and he hopes the regret shows clearly on his face. _Please, John. See that this is hard on me too. See that I feel._

He takes a few more moments to memorize as much of John as he can as he pulls on his coat and scarf, missing his Belstaff more than ever right now. He’ll be back, he promises himself. He walks backwards to the door, not able to look away any earlier than he has to. He feels for the door knob, pauses in the door frame. “Good bye, John.”

John nods. “Come back to me, Sherlock. Please.”

Unlike when John asked for a miracle in the cemetery, this time Sherlock can reply. “I will.” He shouldn’t promise it. He doesn’t know what lies ahead. But the universe has been on their side so far. It wouldn’t let them down now.

He makes it down the first set of stairs before the air changes around him.

He hears the “piyow” of a gun with a silencer. He closes his eyes. He’s apparently returned only milliseconds after he left, but has it done any good? Was the time travel only a chance for him to say goodbye to John? Sherlock’s chest clenches when he thinks of John going through even more pain when he learns of Sherlock’s actual death. Especially after Sherlock promised to return to him.

“I’m sorry, John,” he murmurs as he waits for the pain.

“Why?” John’s voice asks, echoing down the alley.

Sherlock’s eyes fly open. The woman with the gun is crumpled on the ground, blood pooling around her head. Standing over her is the last person Sherlock expects to see. John’s hair is dark. He wears drab clothes. A gun dangles from the hand at his side as he nudges the woman’s leg with the toe of his boot.

“Bullet straight to the brain, John. I doubt she lived,” Sherlock can’t help but point out. He has to fight not to run to him. This man. This impossible man. How does he always manage to do the last thing Sherlock expects him to?

“Hmm,” John grunts. In a movement reminiscent of Sherlock’s at the pool, he uses the gun to scratch at the back of his neck. He finally looks up at Sherlock. Relief and fear war for dominance on his—dear, expressive, lovely—face. “Sorry I cut it so close. I had to fight with Mycroft for weeks to get your location. I only just arrived. I’m with you from here on out.” His voice is rough. Annoyed. Relieved.

Sherlock takes a few steps forward, but stops before he reaches John. He doesn’t trust his body not to throw itself into John’s arms. It’s been two years for the man. Even though he came looking for Sherlock, there’s no telling where his heart stands right now.

“What are you doing here?” Sherlock asks. His voice sounds too small.

“Saving your arse, obviously,” John shoots back. “How long has it been for you? A few weeks?” He skirts the dead body and switches the gun’s safety on before sliding it into a holster under his coat.

Sherlock frowns. “Since I left you? Seconds.”

John stares at him, eyes wide, before his head drops and he sighs. “It’s October, Sherlock. You said you left in September. Are you saying that if I hadn’t shown up now, the time travel wouldn’t have saved your life?”

Sherlock takes a moment to count in his head, but gives up with a shrug. “Time sort of loses all meaning when you’re tracking down a professional killer. Good shot, by the w–” He’s interrupted by warm lips on his, gloved hands at his neck and the back of his head. Oh. Well, that answers that.

John pulls away slightly after a few—lovely, amazing, perfect—minutes of snogging. “You’re an idiot,” he says, his tone warm, his grin bright.

Sherlock can’t help his own answering smile. He is filled with happiness and love. “Most people are.”


End file.
